


Inauguration

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Hateful Eight (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: He really was the new sheriff of Red Rock. There was a job for him to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



When they two finally dragged their sorry asses into Red Rock some days after all that happened, they weren't expecting nothing much or nothing special in the way of welcome. 

That was just as well, Chris Mannix thought, once they'd gotten past the snowed-up signs outside and into town, 'cause they really didn't get none. What they got instead was ushered on down off of their tired-ass, cold-ass horses and on into the sheriff's office past its foot-long icicles dangling off of the shingles like daggers, like they was some kind of miscreants rode into town outta the tail end of a blizzard when they was anything but - presently, at least, not speaking much of things in their pasts. What they needed was a hot meal and a warm bed and not the cold fuckin' shoulder. They got a whole lot of the latter while pining for the former.

"Don't you boys know who I am?" Chris said once they was in there with a door closed up behind 'em didn't need two boards nailed into it to keep it shut, less 'cause he'd thought to throw his middling weight around or call their bluffs and more 'cause maybe they _did_ know who he was: the town of Red Rock had elected him sheriff not long since, after all, 'cause if one thing in that whole fucked-up mess of a happening back at Minnie's had had a single ounce of truth to it, it was the shit he'd said about his coming employment. He ain't never been a liar by choice, only by necessity. He really was meant for the new sheriff of Red Rock.

Turned out they knew who he was and that was the primary reason any of 'em was there. Turned out the mayor came along there by and by to swear him in once he'd stamped the snow all off his fancy boots, with Chris's dirty hand slapped down on a Bible before he even got himself a change of clothes, let alone a hot cooked meal. Every shred of clothing he was wearing was stiff with damn near frozen blood that'd never gotten much of a fighting chance to dry, most of it his but at least some of it weren't. It was caked up underneath his nails when he took off his gloves to say his words and take his office, too, and the fellas watching looked pretty much appalled. Maybe he'd imagined something kinda grander than a tin star pinned on bloodstained jacket under a dead man's borrowed overcoat, but he figured a bird in the hand's worth two in the bush or some such proverbial bullshit. They swore him in. He thought it might be best he let 'em. 

"Say," Major Marquis said, once the general formalities was over, as he struck a match to a cigarillo real nonchalant across the room that lit up his eyes under the brim of his hat. He'd hung back outta the way as the mayor performed the necessary ceremonies, leaning back against an unoccupied cell's bars with his hands down by his guns in case; till then, maybe all the rest had plumb forgotten he was there at all, but Chris sure hadn't. "Can any of you fellas tell me why there's such a goddamn urgency you get your new sheriff all sworn in?"

Said fellas and the mayor all looked at each other like some shitty music hall comedy act three seconds from a hail of rotten fruit. Three minutes later, they all went across the slushy road that was twice as much more mud than snow and into the saloon. Chris figured there weren't no point in setting it on by for morning if they was gonna die 'cause no hot cooked meal was worth that shitty manner of anticipation, so he and Major Marquis shambled their way inside; the others hung back on the porch, like it seemed they'd been doing for days, just waiting on their brand new sheriff. What the fuck Marquis Warren was doing going with him was anyone's damn guess, but Chris didn't think to question it till later and heck, when he did it made a kind of sense to him he guessed it'd never make to them.

"You boys waiting on Daisy Domergue?" Chris asked, as they stepped inside out of the snow. 

It turned out that crazy bitch Daisy hadn't been lying 'bout how there'd be men waiting there in Red Rock - she'd just lied about the number that there'd be. There weren't no fifteen men from the Domergue Gang all ready to raise hell. They was _four_ men, all told, and Chris guessed he and Warren looked such beat-up, mismatched sacks of shit right then that faced with 'em those four poor fellas didn't much know how to lie about the situation in which presently they found themselves. When they went for their guns, they was all so blind fuckin' drunk that the new sheriff and the big black bounty hunter blew them all away before they got a chance to shoot - Chris's daddy would've said that shit's why you don't do no waiting for a gunfight in a town saloon, leastways not if you ain't the abstaining sort. Chris guesses some of what he is he owes to Erskine Mannix, and some of it's important shit, but these days don't he wonder if most of it's just plain ol' shit. 

Then, when those boys was dead, Major Marquis wheeled right round and punched Chris in the mouth with his gun in his hand. Chris went down, though there weren't much there behind the punch. He went down 'cause there weren't much had kept him up beforehand. 

"Hey!" Chris said, while he massaged his jaw down on the floor. It ached, and he figured it'd bruise up real nice by morning, but he weren't real sure he had much to him that didn't ache already, or weren't bruised to say the least after what went down at Minnie's. He was the walking fuckin' wounded, 'cause both of them were, even if they'd started out as thinking they was closer on to dying than was really, truly true. Chris thought maybe the fumes from the poisoned coffee was what did it, some kind of dumbass hallucination making 'em both hysterical. "What the fuck d'you do that for?"

Warren shrugged as he holstered his gun. "That's for letting me believe you was lying to me about this sheriff shit," he said, dusting himself off - the way he looked, it'd take a whole hell of a lot more than dusting to get him back in shape - which right at that moment sounded in the neighborhood of reasonable. Or maybe he was just too tired to discern a difference, who knew.

Then, Marquis Warren held out one big black hand to him. Chris didn't hesitate; he took it. Looked and felt like it damn near finished Warren off to pull him up 'cause neither of 'em was in their prime condition, all in, all told, right at that moment. Everyone around 'em stared. Chris figured that made sense, but fuck it. Fuck all of 'em. Fuck Red Rock. Fuck it all.

There was three rooms to rent left unoccupied that evening in Red Rock's shitty-ass saloon that was sitting there on slushy Main Street, but the two of 'em just slouched on up the stairs all leaned in hard together and bundled into just one of 'em anyhow, leaving blood on the walls where their shoulders bumped. Chris told himself it was 'cause they both needed the assistance, given the woeful damn condition they was in, and maybe that was even the real truth of it up to a point. When they locked the door and shoved a chair up underneath the handle, it was a joint effort. When they pulled all their bloody clothes off of their bloody skin and hit the hay, coppery and naked, it took all four of their hands to do it. Weren't no one was getting in that night, Chris thought: not his daddy's Marauders come to pay Major Marquis back for General Smithers, not no long-lost Domergues, no-fuckin'-one. The two of 'em was safe enough together.

"Touch me again and I'll saw that hand right off your damn fool arm, Chris Mannix," Major Marquis said, eyes closed, when Chris's hand strayed over his belly underneath the scratchy sheets, but he didn't make a move to move it and so neither did Chris, either. They both left it there, skin on skin with an idle threat hanging in the air with the dirty smell of blood, and it seemed like Major Marquis didn't have nothing more to say about it. Maybe he was just too damn tired to argue, but maybe that weren't the reason after all. 

For once, Chris kept his big mouth shut up real tight. He didn't spoil the moment.

In the morning, there'd be work to do 'cause he damn sure hadn't made his way on out to Red Rock to sit on his ass and watch the clouds roll by. There'd be work to do and bounties to pay and they'd buried the bodies out at Minnie's so Major Marquis could retrieve 'em and get almost rich. That seemed pretty fair, considering.

In the morning, there'd be work to do and a breakfast the size of the goddamn Carolinas 'cause he could've damn near eaten a horse cooked rare right then and there. There'd be work and breakfast in the morning and there'd be jugs of hot water come before and he'd wash all the blood off of his skin and maybe off the major's, too. He'd wash himself, bare-ass naked with the blinds still shut up tight like they was right then, and he figured Major Marquis would watch 'cause hell, no black fella has a white man sucking on his johnson in the snow if he don't like it to some unhealthy damn degree. He'd turn around with some bloodied-up scrap of cloth over his private parts and Major Marquis'd laugh and tell him, "Coy don't suit you much, Chris Mannix." He thought if the major could stomach what might come next then he could, too.

There'd be work in the morning and breakfast and water and maybe something more besides but for right then, they left the mayor's boys clearing out the bodies down below and went to sleep there, side by side. They kept their boots on, if nothing else.

After everything, Chris figured they deserved it.


End file.
